


Sickly Intoxication

by notquiteflying



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Dubious Consent, Hurt Gavin Reed, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, RK900 is Nines, Self-Harm, blades r for skatin ya dingus, definitely, does it count if it's like a fantasy?, he's not dead guys!!!!, im okay! everythings fine!, it's just a vent!, kinda graphic!!, like seriously guys this is really fucked up, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 21:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteflying/pseuds/notquiteflying
Summary: The water’s run cold by the time he makes the decision to reach for his blades.





	Sickly Intoxication

The water’s run cold by the time he makes the decision to reach for his blades. 

Not that it’s a hard one, necessarily, but it’s better if he hesitates. Less shameful. He can pretend there’s a part of him that doesn’t want this, that isn’t filled with a sick glee at the cold metallic shine of the razor. 

Gavin feels sick. He feels heavy and nauseous and stiff and so  _ cluttered _ , scattered beyond coherency. He’s tired, though not in the way that leads to sleep and the inevitable nightmares. And certainly not enough to opt-out of giving in, giving his demons what they want. What he wants. Does he want this? 

It’s weird this time. He’s making it personal. Different. He’d had the idea a few months ago, standing in an identical situation, considering the pain and warmth but finding he was far too exhausted for such things. Best to take the normal way out. 

Things got worse. Don’t they always? 

Case after case piled up on his desk, each more gruesome than the last. And so familiar. Child abuse, CSA, abandonment, suicide, it’s the same song and dance no matter how many lives he saves. No matter how many he doesn’t. People die. Kids die. He hates it when kids die. 

_ You’re distracting yourself,  _ says the voice (it has no name). 

He sits on the cold shower floor and he thinks of Nines. Nothing but muscle and stone, that android. Sharp blue eyes and an infuriatingly neutral expression are all he can see for just a moment, so clear against the fogged glass door Gavin almost forgets what he’s doing. 

Almost. 

It’s good, thinking of Nines. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten off to the android, though he wouldn’t admit it over his own corpse. This time is just… different. Better, maybe. 

Gavin grips the blade in his right hand, legs spread as wide as his compact shower will allow. He slowly brings it down, millimeters above the skin, and stops. So close the sharp metal tickles the fine hairs covering his thigh, so close he can preemptively feel the sting it will leave behind. But he stops. Holds it there, hands steady, disgustingly calm _ .  _

His other hand trails down his chest, nipples already hardened to peaks from the cool water. He shivers, a powerful thing that shakes his very core, spurs him on. He follows the trail of delicate whisps down to his navel, fingers padding so gently across his skin they no longer feel like his. Or maybe that’s the disassociation. 

Gavin finds himself half-massed, blood flowing excitedly through his body despite how positively ill he feels. The apprehension stays at bay. He’s a spring, loaded up and pressed into himself. He’s held himself back for so long, every day working to loosen his grasp. He’ll fly forward and crash horribly, but it’s good, those moments when he’s satisfied and hurting and alive. He shifts slightly, hands ever-steady, finally letting go. 

His palm is cool against his dick, leaving electricity in its wake. He makes an audible sound at the initial contact, a pleasure that’s heavy and muted swirling in his lower stomach. It feels distant, not quite right, but he persists, twisting his wrist and hissing when static-like arousal emanates from his cock. God, how long has it been? Pleasure became so sparse in his line of work, never having time to sit down and let go, always chasing criminals and his stoic brick of a partner. 

Nines fills Gavin’s head once again and the pleasure is suddenly sharper. 

What would he do? Nines had already proven his strength by roughing Gavin up in their first month of partnership, an event that did wonders for the latter’s libido. Would he throw him against a wall, hands hot and invasive and everywhere, before shoving him down and forcing Gavin to take the android’s cock? (If he even has one). Or would he be soft? Could Nines handle all the uproar and the backtalk just to hold his partner and whisper sweet nothings into his skin? Could Gavin? 

He’s fully hard now, heat thrumming through his veins and fogging up his brain. His pace stays slow, watching in an unattached sort of way as he strokes himself, cock disappearing in his hand. 

He pictures Nines, strong and tall and beautiful, fucking into him so hard he can’t think, can’t breathe. He takes the resulting flash of electricity with a moan and presses the blade into his skin. 

It’s too much all at once and Gavin nearly sobs. The hand around his dick tightens, pace increasing unconsciously as pain follows the pressure against his thigh. The cut is neat, spanning only a small section and opening wide, exposing reds and pinks and whites. Blood spills out of the wound, swirling around the shower drain and turning the water crimson. It’s deeper than he would have liked, but the urgency of his arousal drowns out any unease that might have taken over his thoughts. 

His hips are moving now, shallowly bucking up into his fist as he chases the tail end of the pain. It’s strong and clear and intoxicating, all he can see and all he can taste. It fades far too soon, leaving the dull thrum of need still sparking under his skin. He shifts the blade’s angle in his hand, soft shower light glinting off of the shining metal and encapsulating the small dots of red that now litter its surface. 

This time, Gavin is more controlled, left hand still working himself as his right is lowered again. It meets a spot already tainted with past scars, its voyage slower and destination rockier. He pushes the razor down, face minutely contorting at the burn that spreads through his thigh and up his chest, but he keeps his eyes open. 

The skin splits, shallower this time yet drawn out by Gavin’s caution. It stings and he can’t stop. Can’t hold back the soft cry that leaves his mouth or the tightening of his fist, cock trapped in a punishing pace. The blade keeps moving, leaving torn skin and hot blood in its wake. The colors pool inside of the wound, filling it and spilling out onto the floor, keeping the icy water red. The razor catches on an old scar and  _ fuck,  _ that hurts, Gavin finds that he’s flinched so badly the wound is now jagged. It slices up at an angle, a bloody mountainous gash that oozes dark crimson onto his thigh.

How disgusting. 

He does it again. 

And again. And again. The cuts stop mattering. They’re sloppy and ill-placed and there’s so much blood it’s begun to mix between the gashes. It trails down in little rivers to his inner thigh. The droplets meet his hand, latching to the skin and being pulled to his dick, staining the reddened skin. Gavin feels sick looking at it, dizzy from all the blood coating his floor and leg, but it only pushes him further. Tears collect in his eyes, never falling, as heat begins to coil in his stomach. 

He thinks of Nines. Nines tying him up, legs forced apart with coarse ropes and wandering hands. He thinks of belts, wax, and gags. He thinks of bruises and welts covering his already destroyed skin, of handprints coloring his neck. He thinks of Nines putting them there, fingers closed around his throat and daunting, teasing words carved into his skin.  _ Worthless. Mute. Sick.  _

He thinks and he cuts himself with reckless abandon, each flash of fire against his thigh electrifying his body and filling his mind with poison. His brain’s got nothing to offer him but a fog shaped vaguely like his partner. His nerves are alight, and suddenly he’s so close.  _ So close. _

Gavin’s eyes are shut. If he focuses hard enough he can see Nines before him, daringly beautiful blue eyes wide in shock and disgust. His brow furrowed and mouth agape, he’d return to impassive only moments later. Or maybe he’d laugh. Curl in on himself and choke himself silly at how stupid Gavin looks, fucking into his own hand on the shower floor, covered in blood and cold sweat. He’d laugh and then he’d leave, not once looking back, and Gavin would crawl out of his hole, cuts still oozing and dick still hard. He’d drag himself to the Nines, a pathetic mess of a human, and beg to be fucked. To be taken and used and finally be worth something. And maybe Nines would take pity on him. Maybe he’d fuck him nice and hard and spill into Gavin’s ass, adding to the mess. He’d leave Gavin on the floor, cold and sobbing, cock burning against the dirtied carpet. 

And then Nines would go, promising to see his partner tomorrow for work. And Gavin would pull himself up, blood and cum leaking down his legs, to seek out a harder metal than his blades. He’d find it in his nightstand drawer, squeaky clean from his nights spent polishing the weapon and pondering its use. 

Gavin would stick the barrel down his throat, aiming upwards. He’d feel the click of the safety deep in his core, finger steady on the trigger. 

The coil snaps. 

His mouth is open in a silent scream as he comes, seed splashing against the shower walls and meeting the pool of red below. He clutches the razor so hard it bites into his fingers and it’s so much, he’s alive and nothing can stop the magma that runs through his veins and pours out of his thigh. He bucks up, chasing that fire so fervently it makes his head spin. Nothing exists. Only him, and he’s so fucking alive he’ll fill the empty space with his blood and cum. 

The aftershocks have him twitching and shaking so hard he can’t move. Gavin drops the blade, hissing as the metal leaves his finger where it was so deeply buried. He stares at the ceiling, coming down from the high, though his mind stays fuzzy. Blood loss, maybe? He should really get up.

Shame is the first emotional that greets him once the dopamine wears off. It hurts, far more than the bloodied lacerations in his skin. It makes him heavy. 

Or maybe that’s the blood loss. 

Gavin shifts forward, attempting to stand, before the world slips from under him. 

And then nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> look man idk it was 2 am and i needed to get this out. fr though do NOT do this if you're feeling low or stressed out please. self harm is awful and it ruins peoples' lives and i promise there's help out there for you. and i promise im ok!!! this is just a vent and it's actually progress for me to be getting the feelings out like this
> 
> Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> also i might add more? maybe not idk i feel like i could resolve gavin's problems and make this wholesome somehow let me know


End file.
